April 6, 2004 - Stew speaks
In his own words
The Demons Return
I’m not sure what they want with me. It’s not like they are coercing me into evil, although they do tell me it’d be okay to off myself. But they sit back there whispering things to themselves…things I can’t hear except for a constant “buzzing” or humming sound of whispers in the background.
I think it’d be easier if I knew what they wanted, if they would just tell me what to do, than I can either obey or disobey, and I’d have a clearer picture of who I am. Am I an evil person – the type that listens and obeys demons, or am I somebody who is more righteous and strong and shuts up demons?
The evil and wicked that I have done would be heart breaking to my Lord. I fall into traps of the flesh more than a good person should. Who would want me: I have not and will not sell my soul to the Devil, but I am unworthy of the grace of the Good One.
Demons haunt me like vultures over the dead. Though I am not physically dead…yet, my spirit is dead. It’s not the death of an unbeliever, for I believe many things… it’s the death of the unwilling…of those who are too cynical to trust.
There are many of us here – all with white beards, wearing tattered sepia colored robes marching in circles around a desolate place. It’s a place of no emotion – there’s no tears, no laughter. No gnashing of the teeth, that would be far too dramatic. It’s a place of understood loneliness – a place that we told ourselves we would be happiest because people wouldn’t have to worry about us, nor us about them.
We carry our staffs to fend off the occasional vulture, the occasional rat. Yet, we might as well use them to crack our skulls and enter oblivion, but that would be too much trouble, and, as pragmatic as we are, would only create unnecessary pain.
We’ve created our own dull aching pain. A pain strong enough to make us whimper, but not enough to make us cry. A pain that we’ve told ourselves we can endure, for we’ve learned that endearing pain makes us stronger – or at least it makes us less of a loser.
Some of us have created our own pains so that we have some to carry. We felt like we needed to be mournful of something so we bathed in our own mystic misery. We actually saw the light of the goodness…we knew that there was something better… but we willingly chose to harm ourselves so that we could toil here in the land of sepia cloaks and white beards, because we somehow thought it would make ourselves more believed.
Everybody is lost in the land of white beards and sepia cloaks. Everybody is destined to wander forever carrying their staff, their burden, their suffering in silence. There is no sound in this land. There are no colors. No black. No white, except for the beards. There is sand and sepia – a bichromatic scheme that is neither pleasing nor assaulting the senses. There are no senses.
The demons are taking me there. To the unhellish-Hell.
The Demons Return
I’m not sure what they want with me. It’s not like they are coercing me into evil, although they do tell me it’d be okay to off myself. But they sit back there whispering things to themselves…things I can’t hear except for a constant “buzzing” or humming sound of whispers in the background.
I think it’d be easier if I knew what they wanted, if they would just tell me what to do, than I can either obey or disobey, and I’d have a clearer picture of who I am. Am I an evil person – the type that listens and obeys demons, or am I somebody who is more righteous and strong and shuts up demons?
The evil and wicked that I have done would be heart breaking to my Lord. I fall into traps of the flesh more than a good person should. Who would want me: I have not and will not sell my soul to the Devil, but I am unworthy of the grace of the Good One.
Demons haunt me like vultures over the dead. Though I am not physically dead…yet, my spirit is dead. It’s not the death of an unbeliever, for I believe many things… it’s the death of the unwilling…of those who are too cynical to trust.
There are many of us here – all with white beards, wearing tattered sepia colored robes marching in circles around a desolate place. It’s a place of no emotion – there’s no tears, no laughter. No gnashing of the teeth, that would be far too dramatic. It’s a place of understood loneliness – a place that we told ourselves we would be happiest because people wouldn’t have to worry about us, nor us about them.
We carry our staffs to fend off the occasional vulture, the occasional rat. Yet, we might as well use them to crack our skulls and enter oblivion, but that would be too much trouble, and, as pragmatic as we are, would only create unnecessary pain.
We’ve created our own dull aching pain. A pain strong enough to make us whimper, but not enough to make us cry. A pain that we’ve told ourselves we can endure, for we’ve learned that endearing pain makes us stronger – or at least it makes us less of a loser.
Some of us have created our own pains so that we have some to carry. We felt like we needed to be mournful of something so we bathed in our own mystic misery. We actually saw the light of the goodness…we knew that there was something better… but we willingly chose to harm ourselves so that we could toil here in the land of sepia cloaks and white beards, because we somehow thought it would make ourselves more believed.
Everybody is lost in the land of white beards and sepia cloaks. Everybody is destined to wander forever carrying their staff, their burden, their suffering in silence. There is no sound in this land. There are no colors. No black. No white, except for the beards. There is sand and sepia – a bichromatic scheme that is neither pleasing nor assaulting the senses. There are no senses.
The demons are taking me there. To the unhellish-Hell.
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